Doctor Watson's Case
by moorskiko
Summary: Watson looked at it, this great monstrosity of darkness, of anger, of hatred, of rot and pestilence. Its gaping maw dripped with blood and hair and flesh. He could hear Holmes sobbing behind him, begging him to make it stop. The good doctor could only fall to his knees and embrace his friend, whispering words of love and comfort, waiting for that beast to consume them all.


**Doctor Watson's Case**

**Chapter One: Where the Tea is Forgotten**

Of the many cases I have attended with my dear friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, never have these cases been mine. What I mean by this is simply that these cases, which I have written about and published in the last couple of years, have always been cases Holmes had happily taken up and solved with his own wit, logic and steely courage. I have never considered myself a man of such characteristics, though my colleague would disagree, and never did I consider taking up my own cases to solve. I left these puzzles to Holmes, for it not only fueled his great mind, but it also kept him away from his precious cocaine a little bit longer and, to my embarrassment, allowed me to spend some time with him away from our comfortable Baker Street sitting room.

However, only once did I take up a case, and it out of compassion rather than interest. It was this very compassion that saved not only my life, but also that of my dearest friend. I will not say this case was a success, though, for my client is not alive to read its publication. Nor should they be, for it is not to be released until one hundred years after my death. Released, of course, to a generation of readers who may be a little more open minded to the controversies that surround the whimsical, the outrageous...

The fantastical.

The case started as most cases do, with the introduction of a client. Holmes and I were spending a quiet evening alone in our Baker Street sitting room. I was lounging about in my armchair, a little frustrated with my current circumstances. Moments earlier I had attempted to light a ship, with the intention of smoking, only to have Holmes snatch my cigarette and lighter out of my hand and scold me for my carelessness. The reason for this was that his burner was not working. Suspecting a leak, Holmes decided he wasn't going to have me destroy our flat due to a gas explosion. Tucking the cigarette between his lips, he flounced off to fix his burner, tinkering away while I attempted to read the latest _Times. _

I say attempted, for much of my reading was colored by huffs and sighs of annoyance. Holmes, of course, ignored me, my cigarette waggling away between his lips while he worked. The man, when he chose to, had the patience of a saint. My tantrum was not going to break him so, with a final sigh, I admitted defeat and perused the agony columns of the paper. I hardly noted when my friend stopped working, so engrossed had I become with the strange ads found in columns. It was only when my cigarette reappeared, dangling near my face, did I actually look up.

"Watson," Holmes muttered around the cigarette, "We have a case."

I blinked, a little surprised, "Really? So late in the evening?"

Holmes responded by taking the paper from my hands, tossing it aside, and pulling me away from my chair, "Come see for yourself."

He led me over to the window, pulling back the curtain to reveal our darkly lit streets and alleys. I peered into the shadows, finally catching sight of a cab parked a few doors down from 221b. I watched a young face peek out from the cab, looking about suspiciously. I felt Holmes press against my back, looking over my shoulder at that cab. I would have found this action strange, for the celebrated Sherlock Holmes did not lean against anyone, both emotionally and physically. But recently, Holmes had taken to making physical contact with me. I suspected he was finally becoming comfortable with my person, so I thought little of it, if anything, I rejoiced in his acceptance of our friendship. I pushed back just a little, indicating my comfort with our current position. We both stared at the cab for a moment, questions swirling about my mind while in Holmes, the answers took form with ease.

"He will be in our rooms in a few minutes... Might as well open the windows to let out the excess gas..." Holmes murmured, pulling the cigarette out between his lips and pressing it into my hand, "Here, Watson. You'll be able to smoke in a few minutes..."

We opened the windows, allowing the spring breeze to sweep out the small, but still dangerous, amounts of as Holmes had allowed to seep through the leak – in order to actually find it, according to him – into our rooms. The curtains were pulled back over the windows, allowing the client to believe that we were unaware of his impeding visit. The bell rang moments later, the client thundering up the stairs with our started landlady, Mrs. Hudson, trailing behind him.

"Mr. Holmes!" she cried, "I told him that you did not take clients at these hours, but he insisted-,"

"It is alright, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes reassured her with a smile, "My door is always open to clients," he led the woman back out to the landing, "Some tea-,"

"Mr. Holmes, you will have to get your tea yourself. I must-," she started to protest, such a feisty woman Mrs. Hudson could be.

Without hesitation, Holmes turned to me, raising an expectant eyebrow. Mrs. Hudson, as Holmes had learned quickly, had a soft spot for me. It had nothing to do with my patient, kind manner, though that did play a small role. It had to do with my smile and eyes, though Holmes would never fully explain why. He became quite frustrated when I had pressed for more detail, so much so that he actually locked himself away in his room for a while. This quality Holmes had learned to take advantage of, for it made Mrs. Hudson – as well as past clients – cave to his petty wants.

Such as, at this moment, some late night tea. Giving Holmes an ugly look, for I did not like taking advantage of our good landlady in such a manner, I took his place, leading Mrs. Hudson away from the sitting room.

"I am terribly sorry for this, Mrs. Hudson," I said, gently taking her hand in mine, "I am in full agreement that clients should not come this late... It causes me to miss dinner at times. Holmes can be so stubborn, though."

Mrs. Hudson eyed me, "He's doing it again, isn't he? He's using you to get me to bring you boys some tea."

I grimaced, "No... Not really..." I protested lamely, hoping that my guilty pout would win her over.

The old woman gave me a stern look, only for it to melt away into a teasing scowl, "Oh, alright Doctor Watson. I will prepare your tea. But you must bring it up yourself, no exceptions."

Grinning, I pressed a kiss against her little hand, "Thank you! I am sure our client would appreciate it."

"Hmph, I hardly care about him," her cheeks glowed, but she hastily took her hand back and bustled back downstairs to make tea.

My mission complete, I re-entered the sitting room. Holmes was already seated, filling his pipe with tobacco. The client had taken the settee, hunched over and wringing his hands. I raised an eyebrow at this, only to have Holmes dismiss me with sniff. I took a position over by the window, indulging in the spring breeze still entering our normally stuffy rooms. The soft hiss of a match being lit indicated that Holmes was ready and I turned, twirling my now crumpled cigarette in my hands.

"I have assured our client, Watson, that he can speak freely in our presence, and that none of the information he shares with us will be made public," Holmes started, pausing only once to take a long drag from his pipe.

My response was a simple nod. Our client lifted his head, giving me a suspicious look, only to turn and face Holmes fully. In that brief exchange, I noted that he was a fairly young man, but it seems something had worried away his charming face. His bright blue eyes should have glittered with life, but they were shadowed over with deep fear. His frown seemed endless, not a scrap of mirth brightening his features. He continued to slump on the settee, his large hands nervously touching anything they could. One moment he was scratching his cheek, he next fiddling with his tie, then picking at a spot on his suit. He seemed to be gathering courage to speak, his eyes darting every now and then to the floor.

"My... My story... In a bit unique and... In short... Truly embarrassing..." he murmured, swallowing every now and then, "Please understand that this is... Shameful... Absolutely shameful..."

Holmes inclined his head, "It is quite alright. We have dealt with several delicate cases in the past... I think, should you need a little push, we should start at the beginning."

The young man gave a shaky sigh, "Right... Right, the beginning... Well, my name is James Pierce. I am not a native English man, I am originally from America. I grew up in a semi-wealthy family, and through my family I was able to come and live in London. I became engaged about... Two years back... My fiance, Cynthia Wright, whom I met during my university days, was a charming young woman..." he paused, struggling with his story, "I must confess... I thought everything was alright between us. We moved to London last November, with the intent of getting married in March... I am a shop keeper, you see. Money was a bit tight and I had hoped to extend our engagement in order to save up some funds... London can be quite expensive and well-," he broke off, glancing at me with sudden nostalgia that made my stomach turn.

"I so loved her. She was beautiful, kind, and so understanding... But somehow, moving to London changed her. There are different men here, much more charming than myself and well... It's exotic, you see, exotic to hear the British accent and to have my gentlemen friends visit me... I..."

I knew exactly where he was going from there. The girl had left Mr. Pierce for another man, maybe even shared an intimate night with that stranger during her engagement. Those blues eyes swam with tears and the man broke down, burying his young face into his hands. Holmes turned his gaze away, puffing away at his pipe in a bored manner. I knew my friend held little sympathy towards human emotion, his thoughts were occupied in the matters of the mind, not the heart. I, on the other hand, did not flush at the sight of a grown man crying. I abandoned my post at the window and fixed him a strong brandy from our liquor cabinet.

Handing the drink over, I pretended that I did not see him sobbing into the glass, moving back to the window and shakily lighting my crumpled cigarette. I immediately regretted this decision to calm my nerves. I could taste the tea and tobacco Holmes had indulged in earlier and almost spat out the ship. I quickly turned and threw open the curtain, masking my disgusted face with the intention of giving the man a little privacy.

The young man, after a few minutes, calmed himself and continued, "She... She left me... F-for some navy man she had m-met at the docks... It was through a m-mutual acquaintance that I found out. We had a terrible row. I kicked her out, broke out engagement, and began making plans to return to America.

As I began to pack my bags, my maid came to my rooms, begging me to cease my plans. I, of course, had no intention of lingering any longer. I had been betrayed and shamed by the woman I once loved. But she persisted, so I allowed my maid to make her case. According to some gossip, my now ex-fiance had fallen into a dangerous fever, spurred no doubt by heartbreak and guilt. The maid begged that I go see her, for the girl was calling me by name and wanted desperately to see me before she expired," his voice grew a little bit stronger, his gaze turning away from me and focusing back on Holmes.

"... You went to her?" Holmes inquired, almost out of habit than sincere curiosity.

Pierce nodded, "Yes... Oh, yes. I went to her. She was on her deathbed, Mr. Holmes. Pale as a sheet. She had cried and cried until her eyes had swollen shut and... Oh, Mr. Holmes, I held her hand. She asked for my forgiveness, for she had destroyed something so beautiful between us. I, of course, told her she was forgiven, for it was her last request. I left her that night, with the intention of never returning to this wretched city again."

"And yet, you are here," Holmes refilled his pipe, "What has changed? Why did you decide to stay?"

The man swallowed, then croaked, "She has gone missing, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, now truly intrigued by the case. The young man got up, walking over to the mantle and setting his drink down. He looked over at me again, this time his blue eyes sweeping my form, before turning back to Holmes. For some reason, I felt that he was assessing our reactions, rather than showing anxiety at the current situation.

"Explain," Holmes whispered, a bite to his voice.

The client began to pace the room, a pondering expression on his face, "That's the thing, Mr. Holmes. I cannot explain. The maid was sure the girl would die that evening, so poor was her state of health and mind. I expected to get the news the next day. However, instead of a message, my maid appeared again. She was in tears, telling me that the girl had disappeared. We suspected it was all a show, that she was going to get eloped after that scene, but even the naval man wanted nothing to do with her in the end. We tracked him down, but he was quite ah... Engaged with the local bawd," he seemed embarrassed by this coloring his pale cheeks.

I looked over at Holmes, but my friend's sharp gaze did not waver from the client, "Surely this a relief to you, rather than a concern?"

Pierce gaped, "My fiance is missing, Mr. Holmes! I promise you, she cuckolded me during our engagement! I thought she would be with her lover, but upon further investigation, she is not. She has not been with him for weeks! I am worried, Mr. Holmes!" the man wailed, throwing his hands up in despair, "She may have returned to her family in America! Or moved on to another lover!"

"Then it hardly matters," Holmes answered coolly, "She is gone. The engagement is broken. You are free to find another potential wife."

The man opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it quickly. He seemed to struggle again with his speech, looking at me for support. I busied myself with filling another cup of brandy, and sorting through the different liquors we had.

"What if she has destroyed herself?!" the young man blurted out.

The horrid thought caught both of us off guard. I dropped the glass, hearing it crack against the shelf. Holmes, on the other hand, had gone very still, his teeth gripping the stem of his pipe. The young man seemed pleased with himself, milking the horrid prospect.

"I broke the engagement, Mr. Holmes. Surely it caused some distress in her. She might be lying in some alley, suffering from that fever, wanting more than anything to destroy herself. She is not sane, not if she's running about with all these men. Surely you must understand my desperation to find out where she has gone!"

Holmes looked over at me, a stream of smoke coming from his nostrils. I gave him a pleading look. The concerns of this young man were terrible and I found myself worrying over his fiance's well-being. Holmes gave another sigh, this time smoke billowing from his mouth. Turning back to Pierce, Holmes nodded.

"Very well. I will take on this case, if only to verify that your fiance is not dead," he said this line coldly, causing some horror in me, "Leave your address with Watson, we will contact you if we discover something."

The young man hurriedly produced his calling card, thrusting it into my hand, "Thank you, sir! Truly!" he then pivoted on his heel, exiting our rooms without a single goodbye.

I stood, staring at the doorway, wondering what just happened. Hearing Holmes sigh again, I looked over at him, raising the card questioningly. Holmes stood, snatching the card from and looking over, only to toss it into our unlit fireplace.

"Holmes!" I cried, staring at the pristine white card sink into the ash pile, "What the hell was that all about?"

"He is a liar, Watson. Plain and simple," Holmes replied, sitting down again, "Surely you noticed?"

Bending to retrieve the card, I answered, "No, I did not. Please, enlighten me."

"Hm... I knew the minute he seated himself that he was not going to be honest with us. His acting skills are quite poor. The wringing of his hands, he was attempting to convey anxiety. But he overdid it by performing a nervous tick, this being he constant touching of his person with his hands. It seems he had performed that speech of his, especially the fiance bit, minutes before meeting us. That is why his words are well chosen, but he forgot to mention the most important parts relevant to any case." Holmes paused, giving me an expectant look.

I allowed my fingers to now just brush the edge of the card, "... Dates... Time... Locations?"

"Precisely. Note that he never mentioned the university he attended, or which city he met his fiance. He did not mentioned were he lived, why it was chosen, nor the name of his shop. Mr. Pierce did not tell us what he sold! Never did he mention going to search for his fiance, nor did he mention the places where he checked for her," Holmes grinned, "And, wouldn't you remember the name of the man who stole your fiance from you?"

I nodded, "Why yes, if only to enact revenge."

Holmes chuckled at that, "Be careful, Watson. Your bullpup is showing..." he sighed and went over to the window, taking a long look at the night cloaked street, "... Honestly, Watson, what man chases after a cuckolding fiance?" Holmes began to scrape away at the bowl of his pipe, the burnt tobacco scattering in the wind.

"But... He threatened that the fiance-"

"Would destroy herself? No, Watson. He was attempting to scare us into agreeing with him. To take up his case, in order to at least save a life."

"Does this mean you are not taking the case?" I inquired.

"On the contrary. I will be taking it, if only to find out the whereabouts of this fiance... And maybe why he wants to locate her so desperately."

A moment of silence fell over us, with me pondering this strange, new case while Holmes began to prepare for the next day's investigation. I did not notice when he came over to me, gently resting his hand on my shoulder and shaking me out of my distracting thoughts.

"... Maybe he truly does love her, but is ashamed to admit that he wants her back?" I offered, looking up at him.

Holmes sneered at that, "Oh, Watson. Dabbling in the matters of the heart is not my strong suit... I suppose I'll leave that part up for you to wrangle with..." he expression changed into that of almost tenderness, but he suddenly turned away and entered his rooms.

I wondered if he was pitying my slow deduction skills. With that frustrating thought in mind, I too turned in for the evening, only to realize that we had completely forgotten about the tea Mrs. Hudson left us downstairs. With a sigh, I went to the kitchen and disposed of the now cold brew. Nibbling on a biscuit, I took one more peek out the window, if only to indulge in the beauty of the evening. My eyes roamed from the lat night street walkers to the urchin napping on a set of stairs. Suddenly, at the corner of my eye, I caught sight of movement. Following it, my eyes locked onto a horrible form standing in an alley.

A huge dog was watching me, its acidic green eyes bright in the darkness. Upon seeing the animal, I felt a throb at the back of my head and laughter, horrible, cruel, malicious laughter reverberated in my head. I gasped, my stomach somersaulting, my heart shrinking in fear. I blinked once and the creature vanished, a vagabond rooting through a pile of garbage replacing it. The laughter cut short, as if choked out. Unnerved, I turned away from the window and hurried back upstairs. Entering my room, I played off the moment as just an exhausted hallucination, nothing that couldn't be fixed with a good night's rest.

Comforted, I turned in for the night.


End file.
